


The Game of No Houses

by primeideal



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Book 06: Lord of Chaos, Cairhien, Gen, In-universe conlanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23345368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Ji'e'tohcomes to Cairhien, but some things are lost in translation.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Game of No Houses

Nuilen and Dinhelt entered the Royal Library with reverence. Libraries were hallowed places, not to be ravaged in war or upheaval.

Nuilen gave a start, however, when she saw the creature standing over a stones board, too large for any of the human-scale chairs. His hands were so broad, it was a wonder he did not disturb half the board with every move. Surely no Trolloc would be welcome here, taking his ease amid the books?

It was Dinhelt who recognized him. “Ogier?”

“Aha!” he said in a deep voice. “Yes, hello!”

“Do you need a chair?” Nuilen asked.

“Certainly not,” said the Ogier. “I am very good at standing. Very good. Why, I walked from Whitebridge to Andor without tiring. I rested in the nights, of course, but it is still daytime here.”

“What are you reading?” asked Dinhelt.

“Many interesting things! Why, here is a history of the Compact of the Ten Nations. See where it speaks of Coerid Nosar? He was the king in Almoren even before _al'cair'rahienallen_ was built.”

“I...see,” said Nuilen, peering over. “The Aiel have no kings or queens, only chiefs and Wise Ones.”

“Indeed? They are also very good walkers, the Aiel.”

“What do they call you?” Dinhelt asked.

“Pardon me?”

“When the Aiel speak to you, what is their name for you?”

“Oh! Forgive me, I have been most rude in not introducing myself. My name is Loial son of Arent son of Halan.”

“I see you, Loial son of Arent. I am Dinhelt Mavabwin, and my friend is Nuilen Vartisle.”

“What Dinhelt means,” Nuilen jumped in, “is that we know the Ogier have always been welcome in the Aiel Waste. Is it true that they have a special name for your people?”

“Treebrothers, I suppose,” said Loial, “and Treesisters. I have not been to the Aiel Waste myself. I hear it is a harsh place even for humans. So few trees and growing things. Little of stonework either.”

“Treesisters,” Nulien repeated. “Tree...” She raised her lower arm, then turned her wrist slightly. “Sister?”

“It’s this one,” said Dinhelt, tapping her own shoulder twice.

“No, no, that’s archer.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Dinhelt. “Ah, Loial son of Arent, do you know how the books are organized?”

“Not all of them,” Loial admitted. “The new books, they are on the back shelf below the window—I believe there is a new edition of _The Travels of Jain Farstrider_ that was recently printed in Shienar. And the older books, which fade if they are too much in the light, those are in the basement.”

Nuilen and Dinhelt exchanged glances, and then Nuilen headed towards the staircase down. “Thank you very much.”

“Was there something in particular you were looking for?”

Dinhelt hesitated. “I am looking for records on the wars of succession. The ones in Cairhien, I mean, not the Andoran ones.”

“And I would like to learn more about the Old Tongue,” said Nuilen. “The Karaethon Cycle, that sort of thing.”

“My goodness!” said Loial. “The Karaethon Cycle? Um. Well, you see, many of the commentaries are actually translations, but if you would like a reliable Old Tongue text, Yenna daughter of Colivam daughter of Rughil had a detailed grammar. And Hoch son of Twaon son of Tarzul had useful annotations on treaties with the _Atha’an Miere,_ the Sea Folk. The wording is quite exact with regards to some of these. Though it has been many years since there were cabins large enough to fit an Ogier. I would stick with walking, myself. Much safer. Much. Now, the wars in this city, I am afraid that is quite recent, I would not know where they might be documented.”

“I mean, the part about the...markings, the signs. I heard there were signs,” said Nuilen.

“Those are for the Dragon Reborn,” said Dinhelt, “not the _Car’a’carn_.”

“Oh. Well, what about the Old Tongue?”

“I would try the top shelves of that bookcase on the left.” Loial nodded. “But the human translations might be very abridged from Yenna’s original. Why, most of them are written in the modern text, and only quote the Old Tongue in excerpts.”

“That’s...fine,” said Nuilen. “Really, that’ll be good enough.”

* * *

Nuilen struck with her sword, and Dinhelt parried. She aimed for her opponent’s legs, and Dinhelt jumped back, nearly stepping on the nearby sparrers. Dinhelt gave a nod that said _pause—_ not handtalk, just the common parlance of students.

They sheathed their wooden swords as a _gai’shain_ came by with water. “Is there a name for this stance?” Dinhelt asked, mimicking a defensive posture that Nuilen had taken up.

“A name?” Nuilen echoed.

“Hummingbird Pesters the Lion or Waterfall Disturbs the Garden, one of those.”

Nuilen laughed. “My mother would never let me go to a dueling school. ‘House Mavabwin does not debase itself by giving its women arms,’ and so forth. I’d suppose she’d prefer it if I debased myself by taking my cousin to bed.”

“Fie on houses,” said Dinhelt.

“Have you seen Bosern?” Nuilen asked, glancing around the courtyard. “He hasn’t been at any of the duels. Did he put on white?”

“I think Bosern has turned away from _ji’e’toh._ Since Kisper died—he’s been afraid.”

“The Dragon is reborn,” said Nuilen. “Tarmon Gai’don comes, and the Shaido kill defenseless cities. But Bosern mourns for _Kisper_? Were they lovers?”

“I don’t think so,” Dinhelt said. “I suppose it’s possible. But I think Bosern just doesn’t want to make enemies.”

“The Aiel aren’t our enemies. Not anymore.”

Dinhelt shrugged. “Shall we go again? Or were you going to the school?”

“School,” said Nuilen. “Father thinks it’s nonsense, too, but he hasn’t ruled it out yet.”

It was about a mile from the Sun Palace to the School of Cairhien. A mile was nothing to Aiel, but Nuilen did not mind the crowds that filled the streets and made traffic slow-going.

The courtyard was, as usual, filled with craftsmen and women working on what they claimed were useful tools. One man, who was tall for a Cairhienin, claimed his gadget would turn salt water from the ocean to fresh water that was good to drink. Nuilen thought the idea was absurd—why, you might as well hire an Aes Sedai to channel water clean, and being in the debt of an Aes Sedai was asking for trouble. Dinhelt, however, was entranced. “Maybe they could use something like this in the Waste.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Nuilen, “there isn’t any ocean there, is there?”

“Something _like_ this.”

“Why would the Aiel go back to the, er, Three-Fold Land? They have fresh water here.”

“I don’t know why anyone would live in a place as sweltering as Illian, either, but people do.”

They almost trampled over Herid Fel on their way out; the strange Andoran almost never left his rooms except to eat. “Ahem!” he said. “Oh, pardon me, my ladies.”

“I see you, Herid Fel,” said Nuilen. “Have you come across anything about honor and obligation in your histories?”

“Honor, well now. I suppose there are as many ways of honor as there are peoples. They fight duels day and night in Ebou Dar, and what are duels for if not honor? But in the Borderlands, there is honor to be gained from guarding the Blight, in Andor for serving one’s queen...” The absence of a queen in Fel’s homeland did not seem to have fazed him. “And among the Sea Folk, why, by not haggling with money, I suppose.”

“Never mind,” said Nuilen, “I won’t keep you.”

“We should ask Rhuarc or someone to write a history,” Dinhelt said as they made their way out. “For the school.”

“Not Rhuarc, he’s busy advising Berelain sur Paendrag Paeron.”

“Maybe one of the sept chiefs?”

“I can’t talk to a sept chief, they’d all kill me as soon as look at me. They don’t _respect_ us.”

“They wouldn’t kill you.”

“That’s even worse, they don’t think we’re worth their time to kill!”

“Hmm,” Dinhelt said. “What if he took you _gai’shain_?”

A dreamy look played across Nuilen’s face. “ _Gai’shain_ to Rhuarc himself. What an honor _that_ would be!”

* * *

“I have something to show you,” Nuilen said.

“Oh?” Dinhelt asked. Nuilen’s practice sword was hanging in her scabbard, and her hands were empty.

“In private.” Nuilen led a wary Dinhelt down the halls of the palace. Part of her thought that Cairhien truly had fallen far if the halls where Laman and Galldrian had once reigned were reduced to passageways for young women to sneak away from the governor’s watchful eye. But part of her would not have traded it for any other city. Change swept through every corner of the world, but perhaps it would not be a new Breaking, after all.

They stepped into a servants’ corridor, then a closet full of wall hangings. “It’ll be quick,” said Nuilen, turning her back to Dinhelt and reaching to take off her shirt.

“I, uh, am seeing Pirhoed,” Dinhelt cautioned. “Not in the sense of ‘I see you,’ but— _seeing_ him.”

“If I wanted to fondle you I’d do it in public,” said Nuilen, “here.”

Near the top of her back, where it would be obscured by her shirt, was a heron marked in red ink.

“The Prophecies say the Dragon will be marked with a heron,” she went on. “And I didn’t want dragons like Kisper had, I don’t...”

“You don’t want to get killed,” said Dinhelt.

“I’m not afraid of dying! We all wake from the dream. But I don’t want to take needless risks.”

“How did you do it?”

“The needle-worker in the Foregate. She learned from a Sea Folk. She’s the same one who did Kisper’s dragons.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little. Swords would hurt more, real ones. It wasn’t that bad.”

“A heron,” Dinhelt repeated. “They say blademasters have heron-marked swords.”

Nuilen laughed. “What would I know about swords? It isn’t like Mother gives me a tour of the armories.”

“Do you think the Dragon Reborn is a blademaster, too?”

“Probably not. He’s also the _Car’a’carn,_ right? And the Aiel don’t use swords.” Nuilen put her shirt back on. “If someone _does_ kill me for having this, don’t avenge me. Or take them _gai’shain_ , if you can, but don’t kill them.”

“Of course not,” said Dinhelt. “The law is the law.”

“We don’t have a sign for heron, do we?”

“I don’t think so. How about this one, _flying_ , like the dragon? And then _sword_ here.” Dinhelt imitated the signs the Cairhienin duelers had set for themselves. Maiden handtalk was exclusive, but they would build a language that was free for anyone who wanted to learn.

“Flying sword,” said Nuilen, repeating the signs. “I like it.”

They stepped out into the corridor, hurriedly making their way past castle servants. Cairhien was never silent; at any moment, He Who Comes With The Dawn might claim his place in the palace of the sun.


End file.
